


Collective Mess (In Silence)

by Desmond (stubbornsatan)



Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: Cliche, M/M, Todae if you squint, Vague, barely mention of names, squint real hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 10:42:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11965755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stubbornsatan/pseuds/Desmond
Summary: (In which Seunghyun is a mess and Daesung knows what to do)





	Collective Mess (In Silence)

**Author's Note:**

> short; metaphor shit

It’s been years of chasing for myself and it’s terribly tiring. As I watch him sipping his drink, red against his full lips, I travel back to the day I saw him. Those wary footsteps, the cautious glance even as he was approaching his dreams. I didn’t see it when I opened the door tonight, probably we’ve gotten too comfortable around each other by now.

Perhaps because it’s _me_ who was anxiously waiting this time.

I don’t know what I’m waiting for. If I was to brutally honest, it’s just his presence. Bare before my eyes, like a display, is him, sitting on my couch, so close within touch.

So I touch.

There are sparks, beautiful comfortable lights travel from his eyes when he turns his head to see me, to watch me shamelessly crying on my seat. _He knows_ , I know that he knows and I know that he didn’t ignore it, he would never do.

“Hyung,” he folds me in his hold, possessively threading his fingers on my hair but never break a single strand. He takes when I give, it’s the dynamic I don’t find in anyone else. He grants me my personal space and filling it when I let him into.

Upon us is ceiling, a frame of life I once dreamed about. Too many things had happened and wishes end, hopes died. The rope I’m pulling is his heartbeat, a rhythm against my ear, constant sound as he shifts our position so I can lay my head on his chest. I’m starving for warmth, I’m sick of seeking for it.

I’m ruined, thorns out of roses, sharp edges of knifes and not knowing how to not lean on him.

“It was fun, my show,” he answers before I let out any question. I guess it’s because we both understand how hard it is to accept that we don’t want to be in our own skin. I guess it’s because he knows I won’t talk about me, even when all these collective mess are mine.

“I heard you won the game,” I say when my voice finds me. “You should’ve let people win.”

He laughs, the rumble of it slips under my skin, setting small hope and relief. “Should I?”

Tears are still falling from the corner of my eyes and he doesn’t interrupt the silence until I speak again. “I wish I could come.”

“To play the game with me? I’ll beat you, you’ll be so upset you won’t even want to come again.”

I pat his arm because he holds himself very well to not to wish me to come even as his hands hold me tighter, afraid that I might turn into sands. “I’ll probably hate you for the rest of my life.”

He hums appreciatively, proudly. Hating is a stupid lie, we both acknowledge it. It’s a joke, _fucked up_ joke we’d tell each other when we’re too numb to feel anything at all.

“When are you going to go again?” I don’t want to wait but I have to. It’s a purpose, a cycle that keeps me going through another day. “Tomorrow?”

“ _Later_ ,” his palms settle on my back, a blanket of reassurance that I won’t be left. “Let’s sleep.”


End file.
